


Insight

by Skylark



Series: HSWC 2013 [13]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blow Jobs, Character Study, Exhibitionism, Incest, M/M, Prostitution, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 14:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Skylark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know him best. You can map the constellation of freckles that spatter his shoulders, his back, his spread thighs. You know the way his muscles shift when he moves, stretches, fights. You've seen the way his pupils dilate from darkness, or fear, or alcohol.</p><p>You know him best, but not as well as you thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wildcard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildcard/gifts).



> Prompt: "Tango de Roxanne" from Moulin Rouge, "Letter to a John" by Ani DiFranco, and "Let The Record Show" by Emilie Autumn.

It's a small place, neither run-down nor well-kept, vanishing into the woodwork of the city. It serves two sets of clientele: the kind everyone expects, and then people like you—viewers instead of participants, people who prefer to stay behind a darkened plane of glass.  
  
He doesn't fit into either category.  
  
You can see the ragged edge of his bitten lips as they open, slick and flushed. His orange eyes are bright beneath his lashes as he glances at his client's face, and you know his coyly inviting expression is a farce. You know he doesn't belong here, on his knees, placid and pliant as a dick slips into his mouth.  
  
Your hands tighten on the chair's armrests.  
  
You know him best. You can map the constellation of freckles that spatter his shoulders, his back, his spread thighs. You know the way his muscles shift when he moves, stretches, fights. You've seen the way his pupils dilate from darkness, or fear, or alcohol.  
  
You know him best, but not as well as you thought. His chest fills with a quick breath before he presses down, taking it all the way to the base. He's perfectly still for a moment, all coiled intent, and you swallow hard—moments before he does, a slow liquid roll that works its way down his throat. His client moans, working fingers into your brother's fine hair. You grit your teeth.  
  
You shouldn't be watching this. You couldn't stop if you tried.  
  
His hands alight almost shyly on his client's hipbones. This isn't the brother you know—he weaponizes everything you've ever given him, words and rhythm and fine bone structure. It must be what his client asked for, but you can't stand to hear the lie he's selling.  
  
The man fucks his mouth and he just takes it, eyes fixed upwards, moving to the push and pull of the hand in his hair. His hands drift to the backs of the other man's thighs, neither fighting nor assisting, letting himself be used. He doesn't touch himself, and his cock bobs between his legs. You squeeze your hands together and try not to think about your own.  
  
Dirk's eyes drift closed, and distantly through the glass you can hear his stifled moan. The client's moves are harsher now, faster. Any other time you'd be leaning forward in anticipation, hand down the front of your pants.  
  
When the other man pulls away, Dirk chases him for a split second before catching himself. He settles back on his heels, mouth sagging open, but you've caught his slip in character and feel vindicated somehow.  
  
The client groans and seconds later your brother's face is painted with white, streaked across his cheeks, his mouth. For a moment the two of them rest quietly, panting. Your brother's eyes open, sharp beneath their heavy lids, before his gaze slides surreptitiously to the side.  
  
He's looking right at you and your eyes lock through the one-way mirror and a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. Languidly he licks his lips. Only then do you remember his skill with technology, your difficulty in keeping secrets from him—the fact that in a city of thousands, finding your brother at this exact moment in this exact place is too much of a coincidence.  
  
He strokes his thumb across his reddened cheeks, cleaning up after himself. You watch his finger disappear into his mouth before his cheeks hollow, never breaking eye contact. He smiles, and a shudder wracks through you.  
  
He's still hard.  
  
So are you.  
  
Maybe you both belong here after all.


End file.
